The warmth of Faris’s thumb lingered on Shirin’s cheek, a brand more potent than any desert sun. His eyes, usually a glacier, now held a flickering, dangerous heat, pulling her into a vortex of raw vulnerability. Roshan shifted beside them, a low rumble of discomfort escaping him, but Faris didn’t even glance away. The silence held, laden with muttered oaths and dangerous truths, until a distant bugle, thin and reedy, sliced through the night. Patrol call. Faris’s expression hardened, the softness replaced by a familiar, steely mask. He rose, towering over them both, his shoulders squaring with an almost violent rigidity. “The Ghoul that defiled our Scout will not see another dawn,” Faris announced to the assembled ranks a few hours later, his voice echoing across the parade formation. The Citadel’s courtyard was awash in the harsh glow of braziers, casting long, dancing shadows. Shirin, tucked near the rear of the formations, felt a prickle of unease. Her decoy clothes. Her fault. “We hunt the creature responsible for the death of Patrolman Qaid,” Faris continued, his gaze sweeping over the eager faces. “Deep into the Shifting Sands. This is not a drill. This is a blood oath.” He paused, his eyes snagging on Shirin for a fraction of a second, a silent warning passing between them. “Form up! Squads of six. Heavy bladed axes and weighted nets. Soldier Shirzad, you will take the rear-most position of the third squad, directly behind the standard-bearer.” A ripple of murmurs spread through the ranks. The rear-most position was traditionally for the least experienced, or the one considered weakest. It was, in effect, the ‘safest’ spot, shielded by five other warriors. It was also, Shirin knew, a blatant insult. Roshan, marching a few paces ahead, shot her a look of furious disbelief, his jaw working. Shirin felt a flush creep up her neck. He was trying to protect her, not for her cover, but for *her*. His intent showed plainly: stay out of harm’s way. “Forward, march!” Faris bellowed, his voice rattling the old stones of the Citadel. The column marched out, iron-shod boots churning grit against the first blush of false dawn. Shirin, bristling with indignation, fell into place behind the burly standard-bearer, whose outsized banner depicting a snarling Ghoul seemed to mock her. The heavy pack on her back felt cumbersome, a weight of guilt and suppressed rage. Roshan had tucked the concubine registry deep inside her kit, a desperate attempt to hide it from the Wazir’s prying eyes. It felt like a stone. The dunes stretched endlessly, a rippling ocean of ochre and rust under a sky slowly bleeding orange and violet. The air was still and hot, promising a furnace of a day. Faris led the expedition, a solitary, grim figure at the head of the column, his movements precise and economical. His eyes, Shirin noticed, kept flicking back, checking on her, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of concern that belied his cold exterior. Hours crawled by, marked only by the shifting light and the crunch of boots on sand. The heat burned, but the files pushed on, spurred by the memory of their fallen comrade. They found traces of the Ghoul: unnatural divots in the sand, a stench like burnt salt and old blood, the remains of a desert viper half-devoured. Tension mounted with every step. Suddenly, the sand *moved*. Not a shifting dune, but a seismic heave directly beneath Shirin. A low, guttural shriek, like grinding stone and tearing metal, erupted from below. The ground exploded, showering Shirin in a gritty torrent as a monstrosity of hardened scales and gaping maw burst forth. It was a Sand-Ghoul of terrifying proportions, twice the size of any recorded, its hide the color of sun-baked rock, its multiple eyes glowing with malevolent hunger. Shirin had only a second to react before its massive head swung towards her, teeth like obsidian daggers. Pure instinct, honed by years of desperate flight, took over. Shirin didn’t run. She *launched* herself onto the monster’s scaly hide as it thrashed, scrambling up its sloping back. The Ghoul roared, shaking like an earthquake, but she clung on, her fingers finding purchase on the rough plates. She clambered higher, towards its neck, its vulnerable throat revealed as it roared at the sky. “What in the name of the Prophet’s Beard is he doing?!” Roshan yelled, drawing his own axe, ready to charge. Faris, who had been shouting orders, halted mid-step, his jaw tightening in sheer, incredulous alarm. Shirin reached the creature’s upper flank, directly above its soft, pale belly. She didn’t have a weapon, but she had something else. Something utterly absurd. She pressed her palms flat against its pulsating skin, then, recalling the Sand-Pup, began to *rub*. A rhythmic, surprisingly firm massage, right on the most sensitive part of its pale underbelly. The behemoth, mid-roar, faltered. Its thrashing subsided into a confused shudder. Its multiple eyes swiveled, trying to comprehend the bizarre, tickling sensation. A low, questioning growl replaced its battle cry. The monster’s immense body went slack, almost purring, tilting its head in a gesture of utter, baffled bewilderment. The other recruits gaped, their axes half-raised, unsure whether to attack or simply stare at the spectacle. It was then that Faris moved. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t waste a single breath. With a terrifying roar that drowned out the Ghoul’s confused rumble, he sprinted forward, his oversized, obsidian-bladed axe held high. He vaulted onto a nearby dune, using its crest as a launchpad, and brought the massive blade down with a sickening thud. The axe cleaved through the monster's bare neck, a geyser of black ichor erupting into the sky. The Ghoul’s colossal body convulsed, a final, earth-shattering tremor. It thrashed blindly, its headless form collapsing into the sand with a sound like a mountain crumbling. Shirin, still clinging to its side, was flung clear, landing in a tumble, her pack strap tearing. The creature’s death throes struck a heavy tremor through the dune, scattering her belongings. A small, leather-bound ledger, embossed with a familiar crest, slid from the pack, tumbling down the sand. It landed face up, its pages fluttering open just as a glint of sunlight caught its silver binding. Faris rushed to Shirin, grabbing her, pulling her close, his face a mask of furious relief, but his eyes were drawn to the ledger.

The Dune Patrol